


Maybe We're Airborne, Baby

by sterlinglee



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlinglee/pseuds/sterlinglee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Realizing he's got it bad for his setter is the easy part.  Getting his feelings across might be the hardest thing Bokuto's ever done, not counting his literature final or putting out the flames on that birthday cake he tried to bake for Akaashi last year, or—or a lot of things, actually.</p><p>But the point still stands.  Reaching out to Akaashi is a leap in the dark, and he wants it more than he's ever wanted anything (especially the smoking remains of a cake he baked before he really understood his feelings, but knew that it's what you attempt with your own two hands that matters).<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe We're Airborne, Baby

Bokuto sits bolt upright in the middle of history class, struck by a sudden realization. “Of course it’s not the _yips_ ,” he says to the class in general. Mori-sensei stops mid-sentence, something about the sociological effect of natural disasters on the culture of Japanese solidarity or whatever, and pins him with a flat look.  


“Do you have something to share with the rest of us, Bokuto-kun,” she says. But Bokuto is conditioned to withstand much higher levels of searing disdain, so he just shuffles in his seat to blow off a little steam.  


“Nope! Sorry sensei, I’ll keep quiet.” For once he plans to actually do that, because this thing he’s realized—the reason he’s had two flubbed serves, a lunch room collision with the captain of the soccer team, and an accidental dive into the volleyball carriage this week—is something too weird and fragile and amazing to be said out loud just yet. He wants time to cradle it close to his chest because it’s not the yips, not an anonymous athletic slump triggered by sun flares or horoscopes or an ancestral curse he has somehow failed to hear about until now. No, no _way_.  


He remembers screwing up that first serve so vividly not because it smacked Konoha on the ear (Konoha can take that kind of thing, it’s nothing to worry about) but because he had been distracted by the way Akaashi’s hands flexed as he lifted his t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. He forgot what he was doing and walked right into those soccer players because he was too busy watching Akaashi loosen his uniform tie as he sat down to eat. One and one are two, the sky is up and the earth is down, and Bokuto really, _really_ likes Akaashi.  


As Mori-sensei starts droning on again, he feels a big lopsided grin working its way across his face. Seriously, Akaashi Keiji. Akaashi with his steady hands and cool glance and the way he’s never quite been able to hide his overflowing love of the game behind that composed exterior. Bokuto congratulates himself on his good taste.  


As class ends, though, he comes down off the high of epiphany and starts considering the actual logistics involved in making the transition from “teammate” to “person who will let me be seen with him in public in a possibly romantic, definitely non-school setting.” Bokuto has a lot of friends, and it’s obvious that among them, Akaashi is…kind of weird. The more people around him, the less he talks, which Bokuto doesn’t totally get but some people are just like that, he knows.  


The record of their friendship exists mostly in class notes abandoned under Akaashi’s bookcase, Akaashi’s name on the high score list of every video game Bokuto owns, and one miraculous strip of purikura photos Akaashi only agreed to take with him because it was the day before their last qualifying match for last year’s nationals. The stickers are a little blurry because Bokuto was too excited to decide on a pose in time, and Akaashi’s eyes are shut in half of them. They’ve been sitting on his bedside table ever since they were taken, where the light hits them in the mornings.  


Okay so maybe he’s been kind of slow on the uptake about this whole crush thing.  


Sliding out of his desk with a clatter, Bokuto dives into the rush of people in the hallway, his feet finding their way towards the gym without any actual input from his brain. More recent attempts to impress Akaashi have been—well, they were definitely _attempts_ , which is the most that can be said. He still thanks all the gods and Komi also that they were able to put that birthday cake out before the fire spread to the counter. The frosting was homemade too, and does not bear mentioning.  


But—Bokuto Koutaro is not one to bow to the forces of negativity. Bokuto makes a habit of visualizing a perfect shot, of envisioning victory as it rides like a Valkyrie into battle on the sweet trajectory of his killer straight. Bokuto does not wallow in projections of failure. Sure, he can get a little down in the dumps sometimes, but that’s nowhere near as important as how he bounces back!  


So he’s all set to take his new realization and _do something_ about it, until he walks into the locker room and actually sees Akaashi.  


He’s wearing that dark gray shirt that really brings out his eyes, accentuates the whole “do you really think you can impress me like that” vibe. Bokuto’s stomach turns over and along with the usual appreciative rush of warmth he feels upon laying eyes on his setter, there’s a tremor of unease. It’s like the vibrations before an earthquake that only cats and horses and things can feel, only it heralds the nasty weight of reality plummeting directly towards his face at a rate of way too goddamn fast.  


He takes a deep breath, and realizes that he has no idea how to put the moves on Akaashi in a way that doesn’t end with his head snapping back and blood fountaining from his nose. He can try to visualize it, sure. But a smooth opening line is nothing, literally nothing; it fades before the image of an unimpressed stare he’s seen so many times he can probably calculate the exact angle of eyebrow liftage that denotes “pretending to be pissed” versus “actually kind of pissed” or “four hours of sleep and a big exam today; Bokuto-san do I need to show you the dictionary entry for ‘personal space’ _again_.”  


It’s hard to imagine sweeping Akaashi off his feet when Bokuto spends a lot more time making the guy stare blankly into space as that vein in his jaw begins to twitch. Akaashi is probably not the kind of person who snaps one day and goes to town on people with a hatchet because they said something stupid at lunch and ate the last croquette from his lunch box instead of showing remorse like a normal human being. Probably not. But a lot of those people must start out like Akaashi.  


But that, that is _not_ where he wants to be right now. Imagining Akaashi going after the team with a hatchet won’t get him any closer to being able to take a new set of photos, mushy romantic ones he’ll keep in his wallet because gender stereotypes should not play a role in determining who can and cannot appreciate Akaashi’s face in the form of convenient sticker printouts. Although maybe Akaashi would overlook the croquette incident and go after Konoha first; the guy’s got a real mouth on him.  


Practice is kind of an ordeal. Now that he doesn’t have to worry about being in a slump, things are a little easier, but on the other hand he does start to wonder what Akaashi would look like if he wore leggings under his shorts—specifically, the leggings Bokuto is wearing right now. And maybe minus the shorts altogether, for aerodynamics' sake. This leads him to trip over a folding chair and almost faceplant. Sarukui snags him by the back of his jersey and hauls him back to his feet before he can make any more of a fool of himself, and he’s so close that Bokuto wonders if he was lurking there the whole time. But he dismisses that thought with a shake of his head. He doesn’t believe in conspiracy theories.  


“Jeez, Bokuto, where’s your head today, huh?” Komi asks, thumping his shoulder. There’s no dignified way to answer that question, so he throws himself into practicing spikes.  


By the end of practice, he’s restored his reputation sufficiently for the first-years to be staring at him in envious awe again, which is just how he likes it. He even gets Akaashi to congratulate him on a straight that barrels along the sideline with such precision you could probably use it to buzz the sides of Komi’s undercut. Well, what Akaashi actually says is “Bokuto-san, you could be doing that more often if you’d just focus,” but it definitely counts.  


Konoha notices him preening and throws him a smirk. He doesn’t have time to head over there and put the fear of god into his teammate though, because Akaashi is coming back to offer him a water bottle from the cooler.  


“Hey hey heey, Akaashi! I’m feeling a lot better now, like that last kill was right on point! You could probably tell, I bet, you were making that face when you tossed it like ‘for sure he’s gonna get it, our ace always comes through at the end.’”  


“…You might have that confused with the face I make when I’m wondering what exactly your reasoning is, Bokuto-san. I’ll admit you were better today, though. You didn’t injure yourself.”  


“C’mon, I didn’t get a scratch on me when I fell into the ball carriage! Cut me a little slack, willya?”  


At that, Akaashi just gives him a pointed look, which says quite clearly that he is not here to cut anyone slack, and they both know it. Bokuto grins, wiping sweat from his forehead. “You knew I’d get that last one through. You don’t smile but your mouth goes like _this_ sorta, like you’re waiting to see the guys on the other side freak out and go diving for the ball.”  


Akaashi’s eyebrows arch and Bokuto wonders if he’s said too much—his extensive mental catalogue of Akaashi’s smirks and stares and varying degrees of scowl isn’t exactly platonic-teammate-appropriate, after all. But he knows what he’s said is true, because he only has to think about that look for his chest to swell with a bubble of pleasure and pride. When a set hangs in the balance and he makes his runup for the final blow, he’ll sometimes catch Akaashi’s eye, and see. Akaashi won’t smirk, not quite, but his look is deadly focused, calm and expectant and tinged with possessive pride. It says, _Look: this is how I enable my ace._  


“You’re trying to distract me,” Akaashi says out of the blue, and Bokuto’s heart skips. “You’ve been out of step this week. You never said why.”  


“Low blood sugar,” Bokuto blurts out, and in that critical moment where Akaashi’s still deciding if his tone and expression are trustworthy, he forges ahead. “I had a group project to work on, and I had to skip lunch to meet with the others. But don’t worry about it, hey! I’m not weak enough to pass out from hunger!”  


Akaashi closes his eyes briefly, as if praying. When he opens them, it’s to search Bokuto’s face closely, his dark gaze sharp and clinical. He opens his mouth and Bokuto gets ready to defend his newly acquired nutritional problems, but the challenge never comes. Instead, Akaashi’s brows draw up and together like something entirely unexpected has just occurred to him. He smooths out his expression in the next moment, blinking rapidly. “Skipping meals is irresponsible,” he says distractedly, and turns away. Bokuto stands for a moment, watching him go in baffled curiosity, before realizing he’s screwed it up _again_.  


He feels Akaashi’s eyes on him while they’re changing, but doesn’t dare glance in his direction because if he starts _that_ he won’t be able to stop. “Don’t leave right away, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi tells him as he fidgets on the bench. “Remember, we need to go over those permission slips for coach.”  


“Oh yeah, right—I guess I passed those on to you, then? I don’t remember that.”  


“You did,” Akaashi confirms, in the tone of voice that means “I took them out of your bag because they would never get done otherwise.”  


Bokuto grins in spite of himself. “Knew there was a reason you’re my vice-captain.”  


“Trust me, Bokuto-san, everybody knows the reason.”  


Once the others have cleared out, they sit side by side on the bench in the back, papers spread over their knees. Akaashi fills things out for him in that neat slanty handwriting, and Bokuto watches the play of tendons in the backs of his long-fingered hands. He doesn’t get very much work done.  


Akaashi, on the other hand, finishes off his share of the papers almost a little too quickly. Bokuto hears rather than sees him tucking them back into his bag. He keeps his eyes on his own work, which is like seventy percent of the way to making actual pen-to-paper progress, so that’s a start. But when he finally gives in to temptation and glances over at his setter, what he sees is probably the best thing he’s laid eyes on in his entire life.  


Akaashi is just standing there watching him, glancing sidelong with his lips parted and his gaze half-lidded and considering. The spot between his brows is smooth and unfurrowed.  


Instinct has taught Bokuto that there are some moments in time that have your name written on them, and you have to grab onto them with everything you’ve got. Time and hard work have confirmed it: there will come a flash, a heartbeat, and if you make your move then, what might have been a trickle of fortune in your favor will become a torrent. Akaashi meets his eyes, startled and unguarded for the briefest second, and Bokuto knows this is it.  


He gets up off the bench, closing the gap between them in a step and a half, which is really the furthest away he wants to be from Akaashi at any given time. And maybe it’s a risk to reach out and cup a hand under Akaashi’s chin but Bokuto knows that this is the moment when it all comes clear—when the odds are best for him to bridge the gap between what he, with his own two hands, can accomplish, and the triumph he’s imagined. Akaashi makes a slight, shocked noise as their lips meet.  


It’s a good kiss, at least Bokuto is pretty sure he’s pulled it off right, although the only criteria he has for success is the stunned look on Akaashi’s face and the adrenaline suddenly pounding through his own veins. Bokuto pulls back a little more and it takes all his willpower to do it—he wants to be close to Akaashi if only to bury his face in the tousled hair at the nape of his neck. Expectation and apprehension make it hard to speak. Akaashi’s eyes are huge.  


Akaashi opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything, just kind of works his jaw and cocks his head to one side as his cheeks turn a deeper and deeper shade of pink. His shocked gaze is fixed on a point halfway between them, and he looks like he’s either short-circuiting or trying to reconnect with his primal urge to kill. He sucks in a deep a breath and by this point Bokuto really isn’t sure if Akaashi’s going to say what he’s thinking or haul off and punch him in the nose.  


“Bokuto-san, _really_ ,” Akaashi says, finally, and hauls Bokuto in by the collar for another kiss. His breaths come shakily as he lets Bokuto back him up against the lockers and kiss him more deeply. He winds himself close around Bokuto, and they’re both kind of gross and sweaty from practice but it’s good, it’s perfect, it’s like the fireworks that go off in Bokuto’s system every time he clinches a win on the strength of his own two hands.  


Akaashi gives an exasperated little huff as the lockers clank behind them, like he finds the whole situation ridiculous and faintly challenging to his sense of propriety. And Bokuto’s fine with that, because it’s so very _him_ , and anyway he does get the proper reaction when he slides a hand up the back of Akaashi’s shirt to trace the ridge of his spine. Akaashi shivers and makes a sound that is so obviously an attempt to bite down on another, louder and more embarrassing one—it’s hot and adorable in equal measure, not to mention more than a little bit funny.  


Finally Akaashi plants a hand on his face and detaches them, probably for the best because _someone_ needs to remember that they’re in a very public school locker room. But even that can’t stop Bokuto from smiling like he’s just seen the world made, seen his moment unfold and achieve liftoff. Akaashi is very, very red, but under the force of Bokuto’s grin he stops looking like he blames the universe in general for guiding all of human development through the invention of the sport of volleyball up to this very moment, where he is surprised into making out with his team captain in the locker room.  


“Akaashi! That was awesome just now, hey, you gotta admit that was awesome! What was I thinking, not trying it sooner, huh?”  


“I’ll won’t comment on what you were probably thinking,” Akaashi says, his low voice a little more hoarse than usual. “Wouldn’t fit the mood. I’m just…glad I read it right.” There’s a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, fond and exasperated.  


“So you admit there’s a mood, huh,” Bokuto isn’t ready to let go of him yet, but Akaashi doesn’t seem to mind his captain’s arms draped loosely around his neck. “And—hey, what are you saying, are you saying you knew? That I was gonna…” He remembers the way Akaashi looked at him before leaving the gym, like he’d been steamrolled by a sudden realization.  


“I had a suspicion, okay,” Akaashi says, glancing at the floor. The tops of his ears turn even pinker than they already are, which frankly Bokuto had not thought was possible. “You’re not exactly a closed book. And yeah, there’s a mood.”  


“Hmm, a good one? Or are you gonna say you’ve had better?” Akaashi’s left eyebrow twitches, and Bokuto belatedly remembers that post-first-makeout is not the best time to wind a guy up, no matter how much fun it is.  


“Better? Is that insecurity, I hear, Bokuto-san?” Akaashi asks. As always, no mercy. “But, uh. If you think you can do better, prove it.” For once, he looks as fed up with himself as he usually is with Bokuto, which Bokuto can understand because there are much better, more straightforward ways of saying, _Kiss me again, you fool_.  


But he knows what he signed on for, after all. As he leans in, he decides that getting this thing off the ground has worked out better than he dared to imagine. They’re in the air right now, and after two successful seasons, countless video game battles unto death, and fifteen awkward, perfect minutes crammed into a photo booth at the mall, Akaashi has to know that Bokuto Koutaro does not give up when something important is on the line. Once he’s made the jump he’ll see it through, send his setter’s promise home. With a little luck they can make the landing together.

**Author's Note:**

> writing Bokuto's POV involves a lot more excited italics, instances of the word "hey," run-on sentences, and general absurdity than I thought it would. also I can't cool it with the damn sports metaphors, apparently


End file.
